


Lady London

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 23:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14579724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Merlin's back in London with some free time so he looks up his patron





	Lady London

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Polomonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/gifts).



London is sweltering in the summer, recovering from years of plague you still see people with their faces wrapped, everyone afraid of catching something in the heat and stink. Merlin prefers touring, even with the bad beds and barns and small audiences and everyone bad tempered it’s better than this smell, this heat, this crush of people. London gets busier every time he’s back. The seventeenth century is continuing to be a pain in the arse. Although, printing presses mean he can sell his plays to printers now which makes more money. He had the forethought to save up and buy a stake in the company he writes for so he’s better of than some. Besides, his patron is generous. Merlin smiles, speeding his steps a little, heading away from the stench and push and shove and shout and busy of the Cheap and down river. He hops on a ferry for a while, cadging his fare with the promise of a mention in the next play - he’s well known enough and popular enough this summer that it works for once. He sits between two young gallants, both looking pasty and tired out, limp like washed up dead fish. Opposite is a quiet, well dressed Moor, he smiles at Merlin when he catches his eye. Maybe not a Moor, though, Merlin’s met a few men and women with dark skin who have told him they are decidedly not Moors. He met a sailor from far across the ocean, a land full of spices and sunshine. The women who run the theatre he’s writing for now are both from Morocco, they came here from Italy, from Venice. There’s also a woman, a servant probably, sitting next to the man, skin so pale she looks like she’s made of milk, a basket between her knees. And the ferryman, who wants a song from Merlin. 

 

“I’m afraid I sound rather like a gutted cat, sir,” Merlin says. “I write the songs, I don’t sing them.”

 

“I sing,” one of the gallants slurs, getting to his feet. He nearly topples into the river so Merlin yanks him back down, doing him a favour. He goes to sleep on Merlin’s shoulder. 

 

“You, then, sir. Can you carry a tune?” the ferryman asks the maybe-not-a-Moor.

 

“No sir,” he says, his accent like Arthur’s. 

 

The servant starts singing without being asked, a rowdy tune from an inn that Merlin recognises, but with unfamiliar words. Far less lust and sex and more countryside and wooing. He can hear the innuendo though, he stifles his amusement, sure she hasn’t a clue that what she’s singing is very suggestive. Merlin alights in a cooler, emptier part of the city, the houses big here with land around them. This is familiar to him, now, and he walks confidently. 

 

The door is opened by Gaius and Merlin feels his face break into a wide, wide smile. He’s been in the city for a week with his play, previously touring, but he hasn’t had a chance to see Gaius. First he was too busy, then Gaius had two days off in a row, then Merlin managed to miss him. Gaius embraces him, laughing, talking about what he’s heard of Merlin’s play and chastising him for the bawdy jokes that have been making the rounds, repeated and enlarged on from Merlin’s text. He takes Merlin into the house and up the stairs, up again, and stops in front of Arthur’s bedroom door. 

 

“He’s still a-bed? At this hour?” Merlin asks. 

 

“He hasn’t got up since the day before yesterday, except to see your play last night,” Gaius says. “He says he is hiding from this ‘intolerable sunshine and heat’.”

 

Merlin laughs and pushes open the doors vigorously. Gaius hurries off, the house quieting as the servants rush away from Merlin’s chaos, anxious not to be within blaming distance. Cowards. Merlin strides to the windows and draws the curtains enthusiastically. 

 

“Rise and shine!” he says, spinning to face the bed in time to see Arthur burrowing into the blanket that had been pooled around his hips. “You can’t stay in bed forever.”

 

“Can,” Arthur grumbles. 

 

Merlin opens the rest of the curtains (Arthur’s chamber is big, there are lots of windows) and then clatters down the servant’s stairway to the kitchens. The cook throws a spoon at him but Merlin ignores her and rummages, stacking a tray with fruit and water and meat and bread, things Arthur likes. He carries it back up and catches Arthur shutting the last set of curtains. He scuttles back to bed when Merlin enters, diving under the covers. Merlin sets the tray aside and kicks the door closed with a bang, going to open the curtains again. Arthur throws a pillow at him and then, when that doesn’t work, a book. Merlin tuts and sits on the bed, stretching his legs out. He pulls the tray across his lap and starts to eat. 

 

“Thief. Stealing my food,” Arthur says, from under the covers, hand snaking out to take an apple from the tray. 

 

“You’re not eating it, can’t have it going to waste,” Merlin says, cheerfully. 

 

“I am eating it,” Arthur says. 

 

“Not according to Gaius, he tells me you are languishing. Quiet the droopy daisy, he tells me. Weak with misery, quite out of humour,” Merlin says. “Won’t touch a morsel.”

 

Arthur sits up just to make Merlin shut up. They sit shoulder to shoulder and eat in companionable quiet, Merlin rambling about his next play, the ferryman, the people he saw and talked to on his way here. Arthur interjects now and then to complain about how much Merlin talks but mostly he eats, picking his way through the food, eating only the best bits. 

 

“Well?” Merlin asks, when they’ve made good progress with the tray. 

 

“I am merely tired,” Arthur says. “Do you need more money?”

 

“No, I came to see you. I’ve been back a week and have barely seen you and then just to talk about money. Why do you so want to speak about money?” Merlin asks. Arthur flushes and ducks his head. “Did you miss me?”

 

“Not in the slightest,” Arthur says, cheeks heating with irritation now. Merlin laughs. 

 

“I missed you,” Merlin says, simply. 

 

He always does miss Arthur, it’s not a lie. Arthur always misses him, too. These moods come over him sometimes anyway, a deep melancholia that doesn’t seem to be easily shifted. Sometimes something brings it on; the demands of position, the men under Arthur’s command coming home from the war missing bits of themselves, court intrigues making him angry. Sometimes it’s nothing. Today it is nothing, Merlin thinks. Unless it’s for missing him. He likes that idea, feels his smile gentle with affection. He threads his fingers into Arthur’s soft hair. 

 

“We will go straight to hell,” Arthur murmurs, “just like Doctor Faustus.”

 

“Indeed. Perhaps we will meet Mephistopheles there.”

 

“Mm,” Arthur hums. He’d very much liked the actor who played Mephistopheles last time they saw that play. “You’re wicked, Merlin.”

 

“Yes,” Merlin agrees. “I am a playwright and actor, quite at the bottom of the natural order of things.”

 

“That’s ok. I am an alchemist, I can turn anything base to gold,” Arthur says, tipping his head back against Merlin’s shoulder, smirking up at him, hand now resting in Merlin’s lap. He looks happier. 

 

“I think I shall have an alchemist in my next play. A reply to Mr Jonson. I shall have all the lechery and wickedness, too,” Merlin says. “And my play will be ful of Moors from Venice, sailors from lands of spice. And women. We shall have lots of women. I think perhaps two women should be married, like Mr Lyly’s  _ Galatea _ . They have printed a new edition, a collection of John Lyly’s works, did you see? Six Court Comedies.”

 

“They should print your plays,” Arthur says, kissing Merlin’s neck. 

 

He’s probably hardly listening. He reads, sometimes, has a vague interest in the news that gets written and circulated, sometimes allows Merlin to take him to sermons and lectures. Mostly he just likes watching plays, though. He’s not an intellectual man. Merlin doesn’t mind at all that Arthur sometimes has no idea what people are talking about, doesn’t mind that he struggles to grasp some simple concepts and usually gives up. He’s smart enough to be Merlin’s patron, Merlin’s brother, Merlin’s friend, companion, love. He’s busy, now, kissing over Merlin’s collar bones, pulling away Merlin’s clothing. Merlin sprawls, allowing it, happy to lie here in the sunshine with Arthur. 

 

Later Merlin has to rise and go back to the hot city. Arthur, to Merlin’s surprise, comes with him. Dresses himself, throwing his manservant George out of the room and letting Merlin help him when he needs it. He can dress himself, though he tends to be careless and miss things. He once wandered through London with his shirt all tucked up and food in his hair. He looked quite mad, quite wonderfully mad. Merlin kisses behind his ear, now, as he sets Arthur in order, arms around him. 

 

“You need boots,” Merlin reminds as Arthur tries to leave barefoot. 

 

Merlin finds his stockings and boots and then they go, Merlin on Arthur’s arm. Arthur has a carriage but today he walks. As far as the ferry, anyway. There he makes Merlin pay for them both. He gives Merlin coin first, but still. Merlin sits, the ferry getting steadily busier in this direction, people pressing close to fill up the boat. Arthur makes conversation with the same  ferryman who brought Merlin down river and is called upon to sing, which he does willingly, a catch that Merlin wrote for this play. It’s recognised and Arthur gets applause, which he adores. He sings another, one Merlin wrote that never made it into a play. He’s a firm favourite of their fellow travellers when he finally deems them close enough to the theatre and allows them to disembark. Merlin prefers walking, the river stinks worse than the streets, but he gives in to Arthur. He always does. 

 

The theatre is busy with the preparations for an afternoon performance but people are glad to see Arthur. Arthur means money, means patronage, means security. He also knows both the Master of the Revels and the Lord Chamberlain, which helps. Merlin is never shy about what he writes. Arthur’s made it much easier to keep his plays from being shut down. Gwenevere, one of the women who owns and runs the theatre, comes to meet them. Her business partner, Rose, is away at court, she tells them. Merlin has work but Arthur goes with Gwen, probably to give over more money. Merlin notices him later, during a quick rehearsal before they open, sitting in the audience, arms on the wood bannister, watching Merlin. He buys them both tickets and they sit in the audience for the show, side by side, Arthur leaning over to kiss him now and then uncaring of the people around them. Everyone knows he’s a sodomite, he once told Merlin, and he’s rich enough and important enough to protect Merlin if anyone should decide to care. Besides, men kiss each other all the time, anyone might think they are friends. Which they are. Merlin doesn’t mind anyway, he watches his play and drinks the ale Arthur buys (warm and tepid) and chats with Elyan, Gwen’s brother, while Arthur watches the play. Merlin and Elyan have seen it often and are tired of it. Arthur’s seen is three time but still seems rapt, eyes bright as he watches, gasping at the costumes and tricks of the stage, the trap door opening up to allow the stage-hands to lift up the scenery of hell, the music rising from beneath the boards, the sudden appearance of characters in the gallery. He laughs joyfully when the characters succeed, boos when they are malicious, curses along with them when they fail. Merlin kisses him when he stands to applaud at the close. He tastes like a hot day, stale beer, a bit of the stink of sweat and bodies that seems to leached into the wood of the theatre. 


End file.
